[mature] A beautiful face is a mute recommendation - Longclaw

[Longclaw]

LONGCLAW

-I close my eyes, ignore the smoke-

The eyes; molten depths of unfulfilled desire, begging to reach out and just brush against his mind so that he could simply understand. Diorae’s wordless thoughts are relayed through her gaze well enough. Longclaw doesn’t need to hear her speak in order to perceive what she wants to say.

She presses herself into him, against him, and he dances beneath the water with growing excitement. The silt of the murky riverbed swirls around them, darkening the almost black waters further and Longclaw raises first one knee and then the other above the choppy surface as he works on situating himself. He longs for perfection and knows that such things come from practice - the beginning stages were not so hard to learn from observation, or simply to feel from instinct, but the act itself? Still a mystery.

Marigold will be his first.

Who else could be so willing, or work so hard to allow him charge of the situation even when he was not master of it? Who else could take the brunt of a first coupling (he’ll lose himself, he might even hurt her, but it’s a risk he wants to take) and transform it into praise, or adoration? Only his canary, that’s who; she suits his needs and will satisfy him until he’s ready for other interactions. (Until he’s ready for his ghost-girl, until he’s something she deserves.)

They might even enjoy it. “One way to know for sure.” Longclaw thinks, pressing a rushed kiss against the dip of her back.

His chest glides up her warm, golden buttocks as he rises; the slick blue and crushed buttercream of their skin melding together with the action. Briefly, he feels her - a moment of connection that sparks a tight coiling of his gut and causes a rough grunt to escape past his lips - and then he jerks wet hips forward and intrudes further, grasping her between his forelegs so that they might be joined in a quick rush of action.

He indulges in the sensation, the silken touch of something so soft stroking something so hard racking his body with spastic convulsions. Heaving, he slackens his upper half to drape the gilded blue of his neck over the pale white of her own and focuses instead on personal satisfaction as he thrusts, withdraws, and thrusts again. Longclaw feels himself reaching an apex of sorts, a climax, but he’s drunk on this interaction and knows it won’t be something worth prolonging.

A burst of excitement overtakes him; his head raises and in a flash, he’s gripped Marigold firmly by the crest. Heat, sexual rage - it all overcomes him in waves until he finds that incoherent gasps are breaking loose to the tempo of his rapid fucking. He wants so badly to hear her scream (in pleasure or pain, she could take her pick) and that need drives him forward into a new high, one so numbing that his vision blurs momentarily.

Suddenly, Longclaw forces himself deeper in a rush of energy and summits, spilling himself in undulating spasms that drain all traces of eagerness or vim. Spent, breathing through flared nostrils and darkened by mingled sweat, Longclaw shudders a sigh of relief and slips casually from Marigold’s back. “That was …” He begins to say, still crossed in the way of vision and fully intending to follow up with ‘fantastic’, but sensibility comes back to him in a rush and with it, a strange sense of disgust.

How could something that felt so right needle him like this? “Marigold, that was lovely.” He chooses instead, cutting through the water to meander beside her. Briefly, his nose reaches out to stroke the curve of her neck. “Practice makes perfect.”

@[Diorae]